Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts. Clemence Dane
A vixen, eh?
Henslowe. Treason, my son!
Anne. God made us anyway and coloured us!
Shakespeare. And is he less the artist if at will He strings a black pearl, hangs between the camps Of day and day the banner of His dark? Or that He leaves, when with His autumn breath He fans the bonfire of the woods, a pine Unkindled?
Henslowe. True; and such a black is she Among the golden women.
Shakespeare. I see your pine, Your branching solitude, your evening tree, With high, untroubled head, that meets the eye As lips meet unseen kisses in the night— A perfumed dusk, a canopy of dreams And chapel of ease, a harp for summer airs To tremble in—
Anne. Barren the ground beneath, No flowers, no grass, the needles lying thick, Spent arrows—
Shakespeare. Yes, she knows—we know how women Can prick a man to death with needle stabs.
Anne. O God!
Henslowe. Your wife! She’s ill!
Shakespeare. Anne?
Anne. Let me be!
Shakespeare. Come to your mother—take my arm—
Anne. I’ll sit. I have no strength.
Shakespeare. I’ll call her to you. [He goes out.]
Anne. Quick! Before he comes, what is her name? her name? Her mood? her mind? In all the town of Stratford Was there no door but this to pound at? Quick! You know her? Did you see his look? O God! The last rope parts. He’s like a boat that strains, Strains at her moorings. Why did you praise her so? And talk of London? What’s it all to you? Tall, is she? Yes, like a tree—a block of wood— You said so! (Is he coming?) Tell me quick! I’ve never seen a London lady close. She’s lovely? So are many! How?
Henslowe. She’s new! She’s gallant, like a tall ship setting sail, And boasts she fears no man. Say “woman” though—
Anne. What woman does this woman fear?
Henslowe. The Queen. I’ve seen it in her eye.
Anne. I should not fear.
Henslowe. You never saw the Queen of England smile And crook her finger, once—and the fate falls.
Anne. I’ve seen her picture. She’s eaten of a worm As I am eaten. I’d not fear the Queen. Her snake would know its fellow in my heart And pass me. But this woman—what’s her name?
Henslowe. Mary—
Anne. That’s “bitter.” I shall find her so. Shakespeare comes in with Mrs. Hathaway. Look at him! Fear the Queen? Did not the Queen, My sister, meet a Mary long ago That bruised her in the heel?
Henslowe. Man, your wife’s mad! She says the Queen’s her sister.
Anne. Mad, noble Festus? Not I! But tell him so—he’ll kiss you for it.
Henslowe. I’ll meet you, friend, some other time or place—
Shakespeare. What’s this? You’re leaving us?
Henslowe. Your wife’s too ill—
Shakespeare. Too ill to stand, yet not too ill to—[Aside] Anne! Why does he stare? What have you told my friend?
Anne. Your friend!
Shakespeare. My friend!
Anne. This once-met Londoner! What does he want of you, in spite of me? This bribing tramp, this palpable decoy—
Shakespeare. Be silent in my house before my friends! Be silent!
Anne. This your friend!
Shakespeare. Silent, I say!
Anne. I will not! Blows? Would you do that to me, Husband?
Shakespeare. I never touched you!
Anne. What! No blow? Here, where I felt it—here? Is there no wound, No black mark?
Mrs. Hathaway. Oh, she’s wild! I’ll take her. Come! Come, Anne! It’s naught! I know the signs. [To Shakespeare]. Stay you!
Anne. O Mother, there befell me a strange pang Here at my heart—[The two go out together.]
Shakespeare. O women! women! women! They slink about you, noiseless as a cat, With ready smiles and ready silences. These women are too humble and too wise In pricking needle-ways: they drive you mad With fibs and slips and kisses out of time: And if you do not trip and feign as they And cover all with kisses, do but wince Once in your soul (the soul they shall not touch, Never, I tell you, never! Sooner the smeared, The old-time honey death from a thousand stings, Than let their tongue prick patterns on your soul!) Then, then all’s cat-like clamour and annoy!
Henslowe. Cry, “Shoo!” and clap your hands; for so are all Familiar women. These are but interludes In the march of the play, and should be taken so, Lightly, as food for laughter, not for rage.
Shakespeare. My mother—
Henslowe [shrugging]. Ah, your mother!
Shakespeare. She’s not thus, But selfless; and I’ve dreamed of others—tall, Warm-flushed like pine-woods with their clear red stems, With massy hair and voices like the wind Stirring the cool dark silence of the pines. Know you such women?—beckoning hill-top women, That sway to you with lovely gifts of shade And slumber, and deep peace, and when at dawn You go from them on pilgrimage again, They follow not nor weep, but rooted stand In their own pride for ever—demi-gods. Are there such women? Did you say you knew Such women? such a woman?
Henslowe. Come to London And use your eyes!
Shakespeare. How can I come to London? You see me what I am, a man tied down. My wife—you saw! How can I come to London? Say to a sick man “Take your bed and walk!” Say to a prisoner “Release your chain!” Say to a tongue-slit blackbird “Pipe again As in the free, the spring-time!” You maybe Have spells to help them, but for me no help. London! I think sometimes that I shall never see This lady in whose lap the weed-hung ships From ocean-end returning pour their gold, Myrrh, frankincense. What colour’s frankincense? And how will a man’s eye move and how his hand, Who sailed the flat world round and home again To London, London of the mazy streets, Where ever the shifting people flash and fade Like my own thoughts? You’re smiling—why?
Henslowe. I live there.
Shakespeare. Oh, to be you! To read the faces and to write the dreams, To hear the voices and record the songs, To grave upon the metal of my mind All great men, lordlier than they know themselves, And fowler-like to fling my net o’er London, And some let fly, and clip the wings of some Fit for my notes; till one fine day I catch The Governess of England as she goes To solemn service with her gentlemen: (What thoughts behind the mask, beneath the crown?) Queen! The crowd’s eyes are yours, but not my eyes! Queen! To my piping you shall unawares Strut on my stage for me! You laugh? I swear I’ll make that thrice-wrapped, politic, vain heart My horn-book (as you all are) whence I’ll learn How Julius frowned, and Elinor rode her way Rough-shod, and Egypt met ill-news. I’ll do it, Though I hold horses in the streets for hire, Once I am come to London.
Henslowe. Come with us And there’s no holding horses! Part and pay Are ready, and we start to-night.
Shakespeare. I cannot. I’m Whittington at cross-roads, but the bells Ring “Turn again to Stratford!” not to London.
Henslowe. Well—as you choose!
Shakespeare. As I choose? I! I choose? I’m married to a woman near her time That needs me! Choose? I am not twenty, sir! What devil sped you here to bid me choose? I knew a boy went wandering in a wood, Drunken with common dew and beauty-mad And moonstruck. Then there came a nightshade witch, Locked hands with him, small hands, hot hands, down drew him, Sighing—“Love me, love me!” as a ring-dove sighs, (How white a woman is, under the moon!) She was scarce human. Yet he took her home, And now she’s turned in the gross